A Day with Miraz — Sunshine Stories

There’s something about Sunshine that feels like the world condensed into a few blocks.
The veggie market hums with accents, colours and laughter — the air thick with coriander, mint, and that unmistakable scent of earth after rain.

Miraz moves through it all with ease. He greets the stall owners by name, swapping jokes with the Afghan grocer, bartering with the Vietnamese auntie who’s known him since he arrived. Every handshake feels like a conversation, every glance a reminder that community doesn’t need translation.

We spend the morning filming — the small exchanges, the rhythm of the market, the sound of languages overlapping. Bengali, Dari, Arabic, English — a quiet orchestra of migration. Between shots, Miraz tells me about home. About his mother’s cooking, the rituals of rice and spice, the meaning of sharing a table. About the word bhorta — not just mashed vegetables, but a feeling. Comfort. Familiarity.

By lunchtime, we wander into a narrow shopfront serving Afghan kebabs. Smoke, charcoal, sizzling lamb fat — food that speaks before words can. We eat with our hands, the bread warm and soft, tearing into it between talk about faith, family, and how every migrant story somehow begins and ends with food.

He teaches me a few Bengali phrases — how bhalo means good, how adda isn’t just chatting, but the act of connecting deeply, aimlessly, joyfully.

Walking back through the market, I realise this shoot wasn’t about footage — it was about understanding. About watching someone navigate identity with grace and curiosity.

In a place like Sunshine, everyone carries a story — stitched together from distance and belonging.
And for Miraz, this city isn’t a new home; it’s a continuation of one.